Nicholai is a terrible bartender.
"You're doing great," I call through my hands. I'm sitting directly in front of his station, which puts me dangerously close to the splash zone, but the view is...
My gaze snags on the exposed length of his arms.
Worth it, I think as he knocks over a tin of ice, flecks of water speckling my face. So, so worth it.
He cuts me a narrow-eyed look brimming with suspicion at the compliment. But he doesn't have the time to linger. Not with customers pressing in to my left and right, waving bills back and forth as if that might better catch his eye. And it does. He blinks at the multitude of eager customers—and the flash of their phones as they record the heir's look of bewilderment at the spectacle of it all.
I would help him, if only he'd let me. But he's determined to prove himself, so I sit and watch while he works, his attention flitting this way and that, snagging on every little distraction. Even like this—hair unkempt and sweat at his brow—he's breathtaking. I watch the movement of his hands, the rise and fall of his broad shoulders. Anything to avoid making direct eye contact.
Because when I look at him, all I can smell is the sea and the sweet perfume of sunscreen, and all I can feel is the glide of his skin beneath my fingertips, kissed by the warmth of the sun high overhead. And these are dangerous thoughts. Horrid, awful thoughts that do nothing to quell my desire. I could have had more of it. More of him. But I made a decision that day in the kitchen, even when he asked me to stay, because I knew it was the right thing to do.
Watching him now, I don't know what to think.
"This is exhausting," Nicholai groans when the crowd thins out, bending over to catch his breath.
TJ claps him on the shoulder. "You're not half-bad."
"No," Nicholai agrees darkly. "I'm worse."
TJ and I share a grin. "I think he's earned a shot," I say.
Nicholai immediately straightens. "Yes."
"You're taking one, too," TJ orders, jabbing a finger in my direction. And then, to his sister: "Gabs!"
"Another one?" Gabby gripes, confirming my theory that both twins have been sneaking drinks behind the bar. She joins our huddle somewhat grudgingly, arms crossed.
TJ mixes up a round of Jager Bombs with expert precision. And they must be working their magic, because Gabby actually manages a smile as he hands out our cups.
"Alright." TJ raises his drink. "To family."
Gabby agrees with a tentative look in my direction. I smile in earnest. A white flag.
"Family." I try to convey everything that word means in my smile.
Nicholai knocks his glass against ours. I wonder then what he's thinking. If the face of his dead brother haunts him, even now. "Sem'ya."
# # #
We close down the bar with what TJ dubs plenty of time to spare. When I ask what exactly he means by that, he grins. The look in his eye is one I've seen a hundred times before. A thousand times.
"This night is about to go straight to hell," I warn Nicholai as we slip through the back door. Just ahead, Gabby laughs. We share a look and that, too, is familiar and glorious and thank fuck, I'm so happy to have her back.
"Hell is my happy place," Nicholai tells me, his words somewhat leaden with liquor.
Damn TJ and his Jager Bombs.
Gabby falls back to my side, letting her twin wander ahead of us. Her arm curls around mine. "Then you're going to fit right in with us." Her words are as much a peace offering as she's willing to grant us.
On my other side, Nicholai smiles, relieved to be free from the eye of her storm. "Where are we going?"
"Lucky's," Gabby and I say in unison. At his questioning glance, I clarify, "It's always Lucky's. TJ knows the manager."
"Gabby also knows the manager," she supplies. "Intimately."
"Do tell." Nicholai peers over my head at her, brimming with curiosity.
So she tells him. I laugh as she relives the affair, involving a bottle of tequila, a broken window, and a stripper named Trixie. Before long, Nicholai is regaling us both with stories of his own, the most amusing of which is a tryst with a French heiress that resulted in an unexpected dip in the Seine. The thought of Chester pulling Nicholai bodily from those freezing waters—in a rowboat accosted from a local fisherman, no less—sends us both into a fit of hysterics.
Lucky's is little more than a rundown shack—a block of concrete with a palm leaf roof liable to blow over in a strong wind—but Nicholai swaggers through the doors as though it's a palace fit for a king, a wide grin splitting his face. "I love it here," he declares immediately, face aglow with the light of a busty neon pin-up girl hanging over the bar.
I don't know what to think of it—what to think of him. How at ease he is here, among people who are so far removed from the only life he's ever known. None of the other patrons seem to recognize him. And why would they, in this place? As I watch, he knocks the edge of his glass against an old biker's tankard of beer, and together, they down their drinks, racing to some undisclosed finish line.
"I hope he can hold his liquor."
I turn to find Gabby at my elbow. She pushes a beer into my hands and I accept it, grateful. "That man loves his vodka."
"Sociopath."
"My point exactly."
At the bar, Nicholai catches my eye and hooks his finger, inviting me closer. I roll my eyes at Gabby and oblige him.
"Amara." He drags a hand through his hair, cheeks flushed. He looks like he just rolled out of bed.
Someone else's bed.
"Sir." I stifle a grin.
"Hmm." He's smiling at me. "I like that."
"I know you do." Stop flirting. But the buzz in my veins likes this. Likes him. "Sir."
His lips part, like he wants to say something else. It's all I can do to keep my hands from combing through his hair. I want to lean into him. I want his hands against my skin, on my—
Suddenly, I'm being hoisted into the air, a pair of strong arms wrapped around my middle. "Mara," TJ sings in my ear. We twirl once, twice. Until I'm laughing myself silly.
"Put me down," I demand, and he sets me back on my feet. "Idiot." I push TJ's shoulder. He's grinning like a fool. A drunk fool.
He sways first to the left, then to the right. "Idiot," he mimics, catching himself on the edge of the bar when he loses his balance.
"TJ." Gabby is at her brother's side in an instant. "You're wasted."
"Come on, big boy." Nicholai hooks an arm around TJ's middle. "Time to get you home."
Gabby flutters around them nervously as they zigzag to the front door. TJ and Nicholai are well-matched in height, giants that they are, which is lucky for TJ—and unfortunate for everyone else in their path. TJ barely seems to notice the mess they leave in their wake, leaving me to right overturned barstools and toss a crushed beer can in an overflowing garbage bin. Lucky's manager rolls his eyes at the carnage, waving me out the door with a grateful nod.
I'm sure he'll pay TJ back for this later at the Dive one sorry Saturday night.
Once we're safely outside, the cool ocean breeze seems to stir something inside TJ. He blinks, staring groggily at the distant horizon across an endless expanse of water.
"This is why you don't drink tequila anymore," Gabby scolds her twin, supporting his other side. "Our place is only a few blocks—"
"I've got a ride on the way," Nicholai interjects. He seems perfectly coherent for someone who just downed an entire drink in less than ten seconds. "It'll be faster. He needs to lie down."
Gabby isn't one for charity. I can see the indecision in her eyes as she worries her lip, weighing the odds of getting TJ home safely by foot. "I..."
"Gabs. It's no big deal," I tell her. "Let him help."
When she looks at me, there are tears in her eyes. I quickly slip an arm around her waist, hugging her as best I can with her brother dangling from her shoulder.
"I'm sorry for snapping at you," she sniffles, voice thick with emotion.
"I know. I'm sorry, too. For, y'know. Constantly doing dumb shit, I guess."
She laughs shakily. "We're used to it."
She pulls away, a tear trailing along the side of her face. I brush it away out of habit. "Still. I'll do better. Promise."
"Love you, big idiot."
"Love you!" TJ shouts, startling us all.
Headlights wash over our faces as a black, nondescript vehicle pulls alongside the curb. "Your chariot awaits, prince," Nicholai grunts.
A man steps from the driver's seat. I immediately recognize Chester. "That's the security guard who pulled a gun on you?" Gabby whispers, her voice unexpectedly close.
I nod gravely.
"In you get." Nicholai drapes TJ across the backseat. Chester observes his efforts, unimpressed.
"Here." Gabby crosses over to the other side and wiggles her way into the far seat, propping her brother's head in her lap. "Move his feet and get the hell in," she orders me.
I do as she says and am only somewhat surprised when Nicholai wedges himself in beside me, forgoing the comfort of the more spacious passenger seat. Chester doesn't comment on the seating arrangements; he doesn't comment on anything at all. I'm sure we must smell terrible, like a hangover waiting to happen, but whatever his opinions, he keeps them to himself.
Gabby gives him the address. The drive is a short one. Mere minutes. But it feels like a lifetime. Nicholai is pressed against the length of my body, and the warmth of him is almost enough to drive me mad. I can smell the vodka on his breath and the cologne on his shirt, a heady, enticing combination that tempts me to drag my tongue along the column of his throat.
Which would be rather inappropriate, given the fact we're not alone.
I force my thoughts elsewhere—on the hum of the engine and the city lights glittering through the windshield. I'm lucky. The apartment complex is close, and within minutes we're parked in the mouth of the alley adjacent to the building. Gabby tumbles out of the car with an exasperated sigh.
Nicholai starts to open his door. Chester unbuckles his seatbelt. "Allow me."
Somewhere behind us, the Dive is waiting. And so is my bed. On any other night, the thought would be enough to lull me to sleep. But not now. Not with Nicholai pressed against me like this.
I shift to the middle seat as soon as Chester drags TJ from the car. He's somewhat more alert than he was when we left, and even manages a slurred goodbye before the trio marches out of sight, making a beeline for the lobby.
"You were right."
Nicholai's voice is startlingly loud in the quiet. When I look at him, his face is partially cast in the alley's shadow. "I usually am." After a weighty pause, I smile. "Sir."
"Dont."
"Don't what?"
"Don't smile at me like that." His eyes are on my lips.
My smile slips. "I'm sorry." Silence weighs the air between us. "What was I right about this time?"
"Tonight. It was..." He's searching for the right word. Finally, he settles on, "Charming."
I look away, to the windshield. The night is dark and close, hovering on all sides. Nicholai is still too close. I can feel his warmth, even from here. Even when we aren't touching.
"Amara."
I close my eyes. This time, I'm the one who has to beg. "Don't."
"Don't what?" He asks the question as though he already knows the answer.
I look at him. "Don't say my name like that."
He doesn't apologize. "Like what?" Another redundant question. He has to know what he's doing to me.
And what is he doing? Driving me mad, I suppose. I try to tell him as much. "Like..."
Like you've had a taste and want more.
The words escape me. I'm not bold enough to say them, not here. Not in this tight, close space. Nicholai shifts closer, sensing my hesitation. "You're a frustrating woman."
"I know."
"Tell me you don't want this."
For once, he hesitates. As if he genuinely cares about my answer. "I'm afraid," I admit, a bit breathless. "I'm afraid of what this means."
This. Our kiss. His hands on my skin. My fingers in his hair.
Our thighs brush as he leans into me. "Tell me to stop." His lips are at my ear. "Tell me to leave you be, for good this time, and I will. Without question."
There it is. My opening. I can parrot the words back to him and everything will go back to what it was. I will be Miss Rossi and he will be Nicholai and there will be no more lingering glances, no more moments of weakness.
I should say the words. I know I should. Instead, I ask, "What are my other options?"
My heart beats a frantic rhythm in my chest as his lips curve into a smile against my ear. Slowly, he drags his index finger along the length of my arm. I shudder. "This..." I'm afraid of what this means. "This can be whatever you want it to be."
Whatever I want.
I should be more concerned about where we are, about who might see. But I don't. I move to straddle his waist before I can second guess myself, savoring his shallow breaths as I position myself over him. "No strings attached?" I ask. I can do that. I can do this. It doesn't have to mean anything more than a simple indulgence between consenting adults.
"Whatever you want, kotonok," he says quickly, his hands moving up my thighs, sliding over my hips.
I almost ask him what that means—kotonok. But then I realize it doesn't matter. I crush my lips against his, desperate to taste him. He returns the kiss with a low groan in the back of his throat, driving me wild.
It doesn't take long for him to harden beneath me. My fingers skim the front of his shorts, running along the zipper's seam.
He breaks the kiss. "Amara," he pants. Pleads.
I pop open his shorts and slide my hand across his briefs. He's bigger than I imagined, somehow. Or maybe, in my bid to be a good girl—to make the right decision for once—I simply forgot what he felt like that day in the kitchen, the length of him pressed against my thigh.
He recaptures my mouth, and it's all I can do not to get lost in that—a simple, burning kiss. But nothing is simple with him. That's why I'm here, in the backseat of his car, his cock straining against his briefs and his tongue twisted around mine.
This can be whatever you want it to be.
Breathless, I take him in my hand and brush my thumb over the sensitive skin at the head of his cock. "Amara," he murmurs, resting his head against the leather seat.
I do it once more, just to hear something filthy fall from his tongue. I get the gratification I'm looking for when he elicits a colorful moan, the string of words indecipherable.
"Do you like that?" I ask, sliding my hand down the length of him.
His hands tighten around my waist. "Don't stop." He tangles his hands in my hair, pulling me close. Our lips meld together as I work out a steady rhythm, and the sound of us—our frantic breaths and my hand slick against his erection—fills the car.
He tenses beneath me. "Amara," he warns against my mouth. "Amara, I'm going to—"
"Cum for me," I order.
He explodes in my hand with a wild curse. I tilt my head back, reveling in the sensation, in him. His lips find my throat while he rides out his pleasure, his breath hot against my neck.
When he shudders, spent, I lift my fingers to my lips and lick them clean. He watches me, still a bit breathless. I can see his heart hammering at his throat.
"You didn't answer my question," I tell him once my fingers are clean.
I'm surprised by the hunger in his eyes. He should be satiated, but if anything, he looks like he wants more. "Your question?"
Licking my lips clean of the last of him, I lean forward and brush a kiss against his jaw. "I asked if you liked it," I elaborate softly, nipping at his ear.
He sucks in a breath, hands drifting to my lower back. "I think it's safe to say," he murmurs, his words warm against my neck, "I do."